


twin size mattress

by butmomilovemyboys



Series: sam & dean & demon powers [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Bobby Singer is Dean and Sam Winchester's Parent, Fever, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Bobby Singer, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Vomiting, Werewolves, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24908044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butmomilovemyboys/pseuds/butmomilovemyboys
Summary: “You watch your mouth, Sam.” His father shot him a sharp look from the rearview mirror. “And Bobby isn’t a babysitter. He’s just there to make sure you don’t keel over.”“I’m not gonna,”  Sam protested. “I’m barely sick. It’s barely a cold!”Well, that wasn’t quite true, and both him and his father knew it. He had been feeling pretty shitty all week, but it wasn’t until this morning that he felt like he truly had been thrown through the ringer. Dean had come to wake him up in their motel room, only to find his brother shivering in the corner of the bed, sweating out a fever of 102 degrees. It was broken now, but he still felt groggy. A bit dizzy. A bit like his eyes couldn’t focus on anything for too long before his vision started swimming.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, John Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: sam & dean & demon powers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822591
Comments: 6
Kudos: 142





	twin size mattress

**Author's Note:**

> another pre-series spn fic??? yeah. i just like the idea im SORRY. so here!! have some bobby being a dad and good old sibling bickering  
> sam mentions a nightmare he has in this that is supposed to be implied to be something that actually happened, and it's actually the fic before this that he describes, but u don't really need to read that one to get this one.

_ It's no big surprise you turned out this way _

_ When they close their eyes and prayed you would change _

_ And they cut your hair, and sent you away _

_ You stopped by my house the night you escaped _

_ With tears in my eyes, I begged you to stay _

_ You said, "Hey man, I love you, but no fucking way!" _

Twin Size Mattress - The Front Bottoms

~

_ (Sam knew he wasn’t right.  _

_ He had known it for a while, but it wasn’t until now, as he grew older, when his father argued with him and pushed every button he had, that it became apparent that John Winchester knew it too. He didn’t look at Sam the right way. He looked at him like he was one wrong move off from being one of the things his family hunted.  _

_ There was something growing inside him. It was eating at him. He prayed it would go away. He knew it never would. So he pushed and squeezed it down, down, down....so far that it was tucked neatly away in a locked box in his soul.  _

_ Dean was a deep contrast to his father. His brother looked at him as if he was the only thing worth hunting for, which made it worse. He was going to hurt him one day beyond repair. The thought made him want to sob. He thought he might already be sobbing. He was fucking freezing, the fucking blanket wasn’t helping.  _

_ He watched his brother enter the room, and suddenly Dean was leaping and bounding towards him, wearing that worried face Sam hated to see.  _

_ Get away. I’ll hurt you. Get away!!  _

_ Dean doesn’t move.  _

_ His eyes snap open.  _

_ Sam was right again.) _

After about fifteen minutes of arguing, Sam didn’t really see a point in it anymore. However, he didn’t like it when his father got the last word, so he bitterly threw out, “I’m  _ sixteen,  _ Dad _.  _ I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“You watch your mouth, Sam.” His father shot him a sharp look from the rearview mirror. “And Bobby isn’t a babysitter. He’s just there to make sure you don’t keel over.”

“I’m not  _ gonna,”  _ Sam protested. “I’m barely sick. It’s barely a cold!”

Well, that wasn’t quite true, and both him and his father knew it. He had been feeling pretty shitty all week, but it wasn’t until this morning that he felt like he truly had been thrown through the ringer. Dean had come to wake him up in their motel room, only to find his brother shivering in the corner of the bed, sweating out a fever of 102 degrees. It was broken now, but he still felt groggy. A bit dizzy. A bit like his eyes couldn’t focus on anything for too long before his vision started swimming. Dean kept shoving all the water Sam would let him down his throat. Still, he didn’t like being coddled, especially by people who weren’t his father and brother, so he wasn’t exactly looking forward to Bobby’s awkward but endearing worry. 

“You look about one cough away from falling on your face,” said John. “Now quit arguing with me. You’re going, and that’s final.”

Dean turned around in his seat from the front to look at Sam. “C’mon, you love Uncle Bobby’s house. It’s like, nerd heaven.” Dean had just turned twenty, and it made him even more cocky than usual. Sometimes Sam was amused by it; sometimes it was fun to bounce off of Dean with coolness and ease. He actually  _ liked _ his brother, as well as loving him. He had met plenty of classmates who constantly complained about their sibling, but it surprised Sam how some of them truly did not like their siblings at all. Sure, Sam complained about Dean’s teasing and haughtiness, but all in all, he said very nice things about Dean. But for some reason, right at this moment, he was immensely annoyed with his big brother, and gave him a scowl. He could tell he was trying to make him feel better, but he wasn’t in the mood to be teased. 

“I just don’t like it when you two do hunts without me,” Sam said. “I help. You  _ know  _ I help, Dad.” 

“There will be more hunts for you, Sam. The monster won’t stop because you’re taking a sick day.”

Thanks Dad, that made him feel  _ much _ better. 

“Whatever,” he mumbled. 

“Dad just doesn’t want you fainting in the middle of a werewolf fight, Sammy.”

“God, don’t say  _ fainting.  _ I hate that.”

“Aw, does that bruise your ego a bit?” 

“It does, actually,” retorted Sam. “Your’s could take a hit or two.”

“Oh, you smartass prick--”

“Boys,  _ enough.”  _ John said exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at his sons. Dean shot him a smirk before turning back around. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and hung his arm out the Impala window. Sam watched as he kept making glances at the side mirror, looking cooly at his own reflection, as if he was some sort of famous movie star in some action movie. There were probably utility belts and hot girls involved. Dean was probably pretending that that gum was tobacco, which he wasn’t allowed to have. Sam knew his brother down to his core, just like Dean did him. Which meant Dean should  _ know  _ that he wanted--no,  _ needed _ \-- to be on this hunt. Werewolf hunts were always rough. Sam hated them more than their other hunts. Something about them made him feel wonky-- like there’s a memory he forgot. And because of that, he wanted to be in the middle of the action. He didn’t want to be left in the dark. Besides, you worked better in groups for werewolf hunts anyway. And the last werewolf hunt didn’t end well for any of them. If Sam remembered correctly, his father broke a rib, Dean wound up with a busted lip and black eye, and Sam had a concussion that kept him out of soccer practice for a week and a half. Was he excited to revisit that scenario? Oh, God no. But he would rather be there to help his brother and father than be laying in one of Bobby creaking twin beds, eating crackers and drinking water. 

Then again, he felt awful. It was bone-deep. His movements felt drunk and sluggish, besides from his quick tongue. Honestly, if he was given the chance, he’d fall asleep right there in the backseat, but they were only about fifteen minutes out from Bobby’s anyway. 

As annoying as he was, Dean was right. He did love it there. He loved Bobby’s books--he had been trying to read them all since he was about two. Bobby’s artifact collection was a sight to behold, even if he wasn’t allowed to touch anything without permission. He didn’t even mind Bobby’s cooking. It was a much better alternative to vending machine cinnamon buns and drive thru meals. Though, he wasn’t sure he could stomach much right now. Somewhere in between those next few minutes, whatever sickness Sam had caught hit him like a truck. He felt like he did when he woke up, but worse and more boneless. His head started aching, and it took all of his strength not to puke out the diner breakfast sausage he had eaten all over the backseat. Dean kept giving him glances through the rearview mirror, but Sam composed himself long enough until Dean returned to the movie inside his head. 

When they pulled up to the junkyard, Bobby was standing outside, his fists jammed into his jean pockets. While still stubborn, Sam didn’t mind staying so much anymore. He was getting colder by the minute, and his lips felt chapped and dry. 

“You boys stay here a minute,” said John. “I gotta talk to Bobby.” 

When John’s car door slammed shut, Sam decided to say something. 

“Dean?”

Dean shifted back around. “What?”

“Can you do something for me?” 

Dean looked like he was about to blow him off, but Sam must have looked as worse as he felt, because Dean closed his mouth and nodded instead. “Okay, what is it?” 

“Call me.”

“Huh?”

“When the hunt is done. When you kill them. Call me.” He was already feeling feverish again. Dean must have noticed. He didn’t argue at all. 

“Okay, Sammy. If that’s what you want.” 

Sam swallowed the mucus in his throat. “It is.” 

Dean scowled and leaned back, his hand finding Sam’s forehead.

He winced and pulled back. “Dammit Sam, you’re burning up.”

“No kidding,” Sam sighed, leaning into his brother’s hand. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah well, that’s why you’re not coming, bud.” Dean turned himself all the way around to cup his younger brother’s face, pushing back to sweaty bangs that were sticking to his forehead. 

“Stop touching my face with your gross hands,” Sam said, but there was no bite behind it. He really didn’t mind. 

Dean didn’t move his hands. “You know...Dad and Bobby could take this. You and I can stay here.”

“What, and you play doctor?”

“Why not? I’ve been treating your colds since you were a toddler.” 

“Don’t make this weird.” 

“I’m not making this weird!” Dean responded, pulling his hands away, much to Sam’s dismay. He tried for a smile, but his face went a bit serious right after. “I’m serious. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

Sam shook his head. “No. Dad wants you on this. And Bobby won’t baby me as much as you would.”

“Not true,” Dean said. “The old guy adores you.”

“That comes with the whole “Uncle Bobby” gig. And you totally would,” Sam smirked. “You’d be worried over every little thing.”

“And you think I won’t be when I’m out with Dad?”

“Oh, you will. I just won’t have to deal with it.” Sam leaned his head on the cool window. “Just...call me, okay?” 

“I will, Sam.” 

~

“Alright, you look like crap,” Bobby said to him as they entered the study. “What’d you catch?”

“I dunno,” Sam responded honestly. “I was okay until last night.”

“Yeah, well, your father doesn’t always have the brightest ideas, but this was a good one,” said Bobby. Sam offered him a small smile, but his head was spinning. 

“Woah…” His vision swarmed and his head buzzed. He felt his ears ring as his hearing faded out, and he tried to keep his focus on standing. He wasn’t doing a very good job though, and he felt Bobby’s strong hands grip his arm and shoulder as he struggled to keep up right. 

“You’re alright, son,” Bobby said in an abnormally soft tone. “I gotcha.” 

Sam rubbed his eyes as the feeling dissipated. “I’m good.” He tried to avoid Bobby’s eyes as he embarrassingly felt himself blush. “I’m good.” 

“Yeah, sure you are.” Bobby still kept his grip on Sam’s shoulders. “C’mon. Let’s get you into bed.”

Sam wanted to protest. He almost did, but even if he didn’t exactly think his designated twin sized mattress was the height of luxury, it was  _ luxury _ . 

“I’m sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. 

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for, Sam.” And he doesn’t ask him anything else. 

Sam let himself be dragged up the stairs into the guest room (him and Dean’s room, when they stayed over), where he found his bed in the corner. 

Bobby doesn’t help him into bed, which he’s grateful for. But once he was under the thin blanket, his head swirling with the sudden movement, Bobby pushed his hair out of his face. It falls right back into his eyes, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Bobby said quietly. “You just sleep now.” 

Sam nodded, his eyes heavy. He saw Bobby give him a small smile, and before he knew it, he was sinking into the mattress and into the blissful darkness of sleep. 

~

Something jerked him awake, like a dream or a vision, but he forgot it as soon as he opened his eyes. When he looked up, Bobby was standing over him. “You need some food in you.” In his hands were a sleeve of saltines and a cup of water. 

Sam’s stomach rolled. “I don’t know if I can?”

“You haven’t eaten anything for five hours,” Bobby said, pulling up a nearly-broken wooden chair. Almost everything in Bobby’s house was either brand-spanking-new or completely falling apart. Sam had never seen anything in a moderately well-used condition. 

“I’ve been sleeping for five hours?” His voice was thick and dry, his tongue numb against his gums. 

“Roughly. I came to check on you every now and then. You were out like a light.” 

He sat up on his hands. “Did Dad call? Or Dean?”

“Your father called about an hour ago,” said Bobby, handing him a cracker. He put one to his mouth and chewed it slowly. It tasted like nothing, and yet it still made him feel queasy. “Asking if you were feeling better and whatnot.”

“Am I?” Sam asked genuinely. If anyone could diagnose him, Bobby could. 

He leaned back in the old chair. “I don’t know. You’ve still got a fever. I think you just caught the flu or something.” 

“Did they find the werewolf?” Sam asked, wincing when a shiver went down his spin. 

“Not yet.”

“And they’re positive it’s a werewolf?” 

Bobby gave him a strange look. “...Pretty sure, yeah. Police think it’s an animal attack, yet the hearts are missing. Sounds like werewolves to me.” 

Sam’s face fell a little bit. He had been hoping perhaps it wasn’t a werewolf. He was hoping it wasn’t anything at all. 

“What’s up with you?” Bobby asked, handing him another cracker. 

“I don’t like werewolves.” 

“Don’t think anybody does.” 

Sam shrugged. “They give me a weird feeling. Weirder than the other stuff we’ve hunted.” 

“Weird how?” Bobby indulges him. 

“I don’t really know…” Sam debated on whether or not he wanted to tell Bobby about all the things in his head. After a few moments, and with a cautious look from Bobby, he continued. “I have this dream. All the time. I think I just had it while I was sleeping here.” 

“Everyone had repetitive dreams, boy. Doesn’t mean something’s wrong.” Bobby’s words are a bit harsh, but his tone is soft and endearing. 

Sam shook his head. “No, it’s like, crystal clear most of the time. Almost like a memory.” 

“Tell me about it.” Bobby then handed him the water. 

“It’s...me and Dean. When we were kids. He can’t be more than ten or eleven.” He gulped the cool water, which made his lungs feel icy. The crackers now mixed with the water sitting in his stomach threatened to come up, but he swallowed them down. “And we’re in the woods. At first it’s just Dean, and I can see him on the ground. No guns or knives, just his flashlight.” 

“Where are you?” asked Bobby. 

“I come from behind a tree. I’m like, seven, right? And I see this monster about to eat Dean--”

“And you think it’s a werewolf?” 

“Pretty sure, yeah. It’s about to kill Dean, and then…” Sam trailed off, trying to find the right words to describe the scene. 

“Then what?” Bobby prods gently. 

“It explodes. The werewolf. Out of nowhere.” Sam looked up at Bobby, and for a very brief second, there’s fear in the older man’s eyes. It’s gone quickly, but it makes Sam’s stomach drop. 

“Sounds just like a regular nightmare to me,” Bobby replied tightly. He looked down at his lap, as if lost in his own thoughts. 

“I don’t know, Bobby...I think...I think in the dream,  _ I’m  _ the one who made it explode.” 

The fear flashes across Bobby’s eyes again. “That proves my theory further. You’ve got a big brain, Sam. Lots of thoughts running through it.” 

“So you’re saying I just made that up?” Sam asked, with a twinge of annoyance. 

“I’m  _ saying  _ that I would tell you if you could make werewolves explode, kid.” 

Sam wanted to keep arguing, but he didn’t get as much out of arguing with Bobby as he did his father. 

There was anger-laced tension in the air while Sam worked on his "gourmet meal," which Bobby broke a bit when he reached into the plastic bag beside him, which Sam hadn’t noticed yet. 

“What’s in there?” asked Sam, gesturing with a cracker. 

Bobby cracked a small smile. “Considering you’re on bedrest until you can stand without toppling over, I got you a couple things.” 

He opened the bag and tossed its contents onto Sam’s lap. What landed were two books--a paperback copy of  _ The Perks of Being a Wallflower  _ and a hardcover copy of  _ Les Miserables,  _ which hurt on impact, if Sam was being honest. 

“Woah, thanks, Bobby,” Sam said in a slightly awed voice. He ran his fingers over the top of the hardcover. 

“The little one there is a new one. Though you might give it a whirl.” He raised his eyebrows towards the larger book next. “But that brick there--I know you’ve been wanting to get your hands on it for a while.” 

“I sure have. I just haven’t had time to read it.”

“Well, now you’ve got all the time in the world,” Bobby said chuckling when Sam rolled his eyes. He stood up and stretched “I’ve got to work on some stuff for your father.”

“Alright. Thanks again, Bobby.” 

“No problem, kid.” 

He heard Bobby’s footsteps down the stairs as he opened his book, ignoring the strain behind his eyes. 

He probably shouldn’t have. He wishes he hadn’t. 

~

He couldn't tell if he had read anything or not, because the saltine moment of clarity is very short lived. He opened his eyes to find the room spinning and the large book open on his chest. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. He fumbled for the watch on his wrist, and found himself unable to to read the time on it. Worry crept up his throat, but suddenly it wasn’t just worry, it was his saltines as well. He managed to throw himself out of bed, trying to be steady on his feet, and make a b-line for the bathroom down the hall. When he reached the room, he didn’t waste any time before grossly retching into the toilet. His head spun--he hadn’t moved this much in hours. He felt freezing, like there was an icy cold film that stuck to his skin and bones. He felt tears well in his eyes as he heaved, and they felt warm against his cold face. 

In short, he was miserable. 

His vision cleared for a brief moment, and he took this time to glance at his watch again.  _ 1:56am.  _ He heaved again, but nothing came up. There wasn’t anything  _ left  _ to come up. 

1:56 was late. His father and brother should be back by now, and that worry creeps up his throat again, this time forgoing his only meal of the day. His brain was hazy and his vision is just the same, but something in him told him he’s  _ got  _ to get to Bobby, to tell him that he needs to help his family and to tell him he needs to get his brother back. 

He pushed himself up, blinking away the dancing black spots and catching himself on the doorknob. He stumbled blindly down the hallway, checking each room for any sign of Bobby, but there is none. For a second, he thought Bobby might have left him too, but he quickly realized he must have been downstairs. 

He wasn’t really sure he could make it down the stairs without falling, but there was an adrenaline-type feeling running through his organ systems, like a hot fire that warmed his ever-growing-colder body, and it made him keep going. He felt like he was floating as he sped down the stairs, absentmindedly grabbing the railing. He couldn’t see, but he could  _ feel.  _ He felt the wooden railing splinter his hand as he held it all the way down, felt the carpeted steps creek underneath his feet. He finally made it to the ground floor. 

“Bobby?” he whispered. He couldn’t get his voice to sound any louder. 

It didn’t seem to matter, because he heard another pair of footsteps enter the threshold. 

“Sam? What the hell are you--” 

Sam’s vision cleared long enough for him to see Bobby standing in front of him. He looked incredibly worried and even a bit terrified, and Bobby was rarely terrified. Did Sam look that bad? 

“Bobby,  _ Bobby--”  _ Sam grabbed for Bobby’s shoulders, weakly gripping them as he tried to stay on his two feet. “Dean--my dad--where are they?”

“They’re on the hunt, kid, remember?” Bobby spoke softly and calmly, slowly taking Sam’s hands off his shoulders in favor of gripping his own. “The werewolves?”

“The werewolves…” Sam whispered. His head pounded. He needed it to stop. “They should be back by now, Bobby, they should be--”

“I’m sure they are on their way, okay? Let’s get you back--”

“No! Dean said he would call!” Sam protested, his voice rough and hoarse. “He said so, he  _ promised.”  _

Bobby’s lips made a thin line. “I’m sure he just forgot. Are you alright, son?” 

_ Is that a rhetorical question?  _ “Dean doesn’t break promises. He  _ only _ wouldn’t--he only wouldn't if he were dead.” His skull felt like it was ripping in two. He yelped embarrassingly, pressing his palms deeply into his eye sockets. “God  _ fucking _ damnit!” 

“Jesus,” Bobby spoke, carefully lowering Sam to the ground, along with himself. “Alright, I’m gonna help you, but you have to tell me what’s going on with you.” 

“I don’t know, Bobby,  _ I don’t know,” _ he practically screamed. “God, it feels like my brain is gonna implode.” He weakly shook within Bobby’s arms, squeezing and contorting his face in different ways to relieve any of the pain, but it was all futile. He let himself be very young for a second as he pressed his head into Bobby’s shoulder, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. 

Bobby didn’t seem to mind. “This isn’t right, Sam. Just hold on, okay?”

_ Not right. I’m not right. “I’m not right.” _

“What? No, son, I didn’t say that.” 

Sam swallowed sharply. “But I’m not. Something’s wrong with me, Bobby.” 

Bobby didn’t respond. His vision faded back out, and he was almost grateful for it, as it added less strain to his eyes. His head felt like his brain was completely disconnected to his body. His insides were on fire, but his body still felt as cold as ever. He shook from it. 

“I’m going to get you help, Sam. Just stay with me, alright?” Bobby put his hand to his forehead, and pulled back sharply. “Jesus Christ…” 

Sam practically whimpered. There was only one solution to his issue, and then was allowing himself to pass out into the darkness that was clouding his vision. The only problem was he wasn’t sure if he’d ever  _ return  _ from it, and he wasn’t sure if it would be worth it.

But when his head flared again, all hesitation went out the window. 

“I’m not  _ right.  _ I’m not  _ right.”  _ He gritted his teeth so hard it hurt, and somewhere distantly, he heard the lightbulb above them crack, shatter, and break. 

“What the hell?” Bobby sounded too scared for Sam’s liking. 

Bobby called his name, but he was already falling down, down, down…

His head smacked against the floor, and he was out. 

~

White. 

That’s different. 

When he opened his eyes, it was blurry, but it was  _ white.  _ A very stark contrast to the blackness he had just experienced. There was a soft mechanical beeping coming from somewhere, but all he could do was look at the bright ceiling of what he assumed was a hospital room. 

He listened to himself breathe, soaking in the bliss that came with whatever they were feeding him through the IV in his hand. His head felt better, aside from an overall dull ache. He at least didn’t feel like his head about to explode. 

Something ugly built up in his chest, though, as he remembered that Dean actually  _ had  _ broken his promise to him, meaning…

“Sammy?”

Sam quickly turned his head to his side, and there he was. 

Dean was sitting with his legs curled up into his chest, his fingers twisting and pulling on the amulet around his neck. 

“Dean,” he exhaled, his voice not 100% back to him. “You’re alive.”

Dean seemed somewhat confused to hear that. He reached over and pushed back Sam’s hair, looking at him with tears in his eyes. “Yeah, dude, I am.” 

“Am I?” Sam asked honestly. 

“Barely.” Dean kinda sounded like he had been crying. Dean rarely cried, so Sam knew something bad must have happened. 

“What happened?” Sam turned on his side, and Dean kept his hand running through Sam’s hair. 

“No one really knows. They said you had a really high fever,” he said. “Bobby said you came down in the middle of the night, mumbling something about the werewolf and how...I don’t know, how you weren’t...right? He was making much sense. You scared the fuck out of him.” 

Sam scowled softly. “You broke your promise.” 

“Huh?”

“You didn’t call me,” said Sam, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. “You were gonna call me so I knew you were okay.” 

Something clicked in Dean’s head, and Sam could see it. “Oh. Sammy, I’m so sorry.” 

“I thought you guys died, Dean.”

“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.” Dean looked shameful. 

Sam wasn’t really angry though. He was too relieved. “What happened after that?” 

Dean cleared his throat. “Um, Bobby called us. We were about twenty minutes out. He said that you had just passed the fuck out on the floor and you were burning up. I think he might have called an ambulance.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” said Sam. 

“Yeah, I doubt you would. You’ve been either unconscious or feverish for the last five hours.” 

“Do I still have a fever?” 

“A low one, yeah. But you’re on the mend, so they say.” 

“Do they really not know what happened to me?” Sam asked, trailing his finger over the IV. 

Dean shrugged. “The doc said it might have been an extreme case of the flu. Bobby thinks maybe you got poisoned at some point and had to wait it out. Either way, you’re better now.” 

“Poisoned?” 

“I think he was just trying to give it some sort of explanation for it all, you know? You really did scare him, Sam. Him and Dad have been whisper-arguing for, like, the last three hours.” Dean responded, moving his hand away from Sam’s head and laying them under his own as he leaned on the edge of Sam’s bed. 

“I feel bad,” Sam pouted. 

“Aw, don’t. It ain’t your fault.” 

Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Still.” He was quiet for a moment. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

He gulped. “Did I--um...did Bobby mention a broken lightbulb or something?”

That same fear he had seen in Bobby’s eyes flashed in Dean’s, but he was quick to pretend it didn't, and simply said, “No. Lightbulbs were not in the diagnosis.” 

Sam didn’t buy it, but didn’t want to press further. Still, something else was eating at him. 

“One more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Was there ever a time...that you almost got killed by a werewolf when we were kids? And I was there?” 

Dean looked like he was contemplating what to say. After a brief moment, he spoke. “That’s a dream, Sammy. You’ve been having it since you were like, seven.”

“You’re sure?” He sounded childish asking, but it was still worrying him. 

“Positive. I’ve been almost killed by werewolves  _ other  _ times, but not that time. Because that never happened.” 

Sam nodded as they entered a period of kinda awkward silence. 

“I really didn’t think I was that sick,” Sam realized, breaking the silence. “It happened really fast.” 

“That’s what Bobby said,” Dean replied. “He’s gonna give you a whole “you need to take better care of yourself” speech, you know that, right?” 

“I’m surprised I didn’t get one from you,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. 

Dean shrugged again. “Eh, I’m too tired. I haven’t slept in, like, ten hours.” He eyes Sam’s pillows carefully. 

“Well, I’m not sharing my bed, so tough luck,” Sam retorted, raising his eyebrows. 

“That’s not nice, Sammy. You never share.” He fake pouted and tilted his head. 

Sam reluctantly threw one of his pillows at Dean’s head. “Fine. Take my pillows. I’ll just continue to suffer over here with my  _ one  _ pillow.” 

Dean flashed him a smile as he curled his legs back into the seat and tucked the pillow between his neck and shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Forgive me for seeking a bit of comfort.” 

“You are forgiven.” Sam flashed him a smile of his own. He was still kinda tired, and Dean looked beat to hell, so he didn’t mind the silence that followed. Dean and him had silent conversations with just their faces and eyes until Dean closed his, with Sam following soon after. 

He breathed in the scent of the hospital sheets and let himself feel right for a little while. 

  
  
  



End file.
